


Let Coulson Take the Wheel

by hoosierbitch



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BDSM, Love, M/M, Safewords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:22:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1951419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoosierbitch/pseuds/hoosierbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint has to safeword, and it terrifies him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Coulson Take the Wheel

**Author's Note:**

> Content Advisory: Briefly: restraints, dirtytalk, orgasm denial, and waxplay. Past unhealthy relationships. [Please send me a note if you need more specific trigger information, or if there's anything you think I've missed here!]
> 
> A Quick Note: This isn't a guide on How to do BDSM, it's just one way that I personally think it might develop between these two characters.

"Maybe I won't let you come at all," Coulson said, giving Clint a critical once-over. Clint stared up at him, his _please_ mangled by the ball gag that was spreading his lips wide, ruining all his words. "You'd be hard for hours, waiting to calm down enough to sleep. And as soon as you did, I'd wake you up again by touching you." He circled one of Clint's nipples--already sore, scratched and bitten--almost lazily. "I wouldn't touch your cock, of course." He leaned back, a considering frown on his face as he looked Clint over. Then he bent close, his lips brushing against Clint's ear when he whispered, "You haven't done enough to deserve to come yet." 

Clint wanted to protest, wanted to say he'd been good, he'd been waiting for _hours_ now, but Coulson was the one who decided when Clint got his rewards. Instead of trying to talk, Clint just whimpered. Coulson bit the outside of Clint's ear and said, "Good boy," which made Clint's whole body shake. 

He wondered if he’d be able to come from the words alone if Coulson said it enough times (with that kind of pride in his voice; teasing and praising all at once).

When they were like this, Clint called Coulson 'Sir,' and Coulson used Clint's first name until Clint was broken down enough to take 'Boy' as a sign of approval instead of an insult. 

He felt broken now. Splayed across their bed, sinfully soft sheets sticking to his sweating back. It made him almost angry that when he fought his bonds they wouldn't leave a mark. Coulson only ever used the expensive cuffs; if he wanted Clint marked, he'd do it with his own hands. 

Coulson moved his mouth down the sensitive skin of Clint's ear, down to his neck (which Coulson wanted to bite so bad; Clint wanted to wear his mark like a badge he'd earned; but they both agreed they couldn't risk it), and then to his shoulders. He mouthed at Clint's nipple and Clint thrust his chest up, sound coming out of his mouth that was never meant to be words. Coulson reduced him to less than that. 

Clint's legs were spread wide, the tendons in his thighs taut. Coulson sat between Clint's legs and looked him over. "You're a mess," Coulson said. He sounded like he was talking to probationary agents; amused and chiding all at once. 

Clint's nipples were criss-crossed with lines and marks and bruises. There was wax on his chest, neck, stomach, and thighs. Coulson hadn't peeled it off yet; Clint liked him to do that after the scene was over. 

"If you came, it'd be even messier. And maybe I don't feel like doing more clean-up," Coulson said. He wrapped his hand around the base of Clint's cock and stroked it once, slowly, twisting his palm over the head until Clint's groan turned into a begging cry. 

"How many hours have you been hard?" Coulson asked. Clint swallowed and shook his head. He didn't know. "Does it hurt?" He nodded. "Have you come yet today?" Clint shook his head. "Did you come yesterday?" Clint whined his _No_. Coulson hadn't given him permission to come, and Coulson knew that Clint had obeyed him. 

Coulson, his hand wet with Clint's precum, traced his fingers idly over Clint's balls. Clint squeezed his eyes shut, his hands clenching into fists. Coulson kept going. Playing with Clint's balls, occasionally stroking Clint's cock--always slowly, never more than one stroke at a time--and tugging at Clint's nipples with his teeth when he got bored. 

Coulson was rubbing his hand over the head of Clint's cock when Clint felt himself about to come. He shouted through the gag, a mix of _Please_ , and _I need this_ , with _Sir_ thrown in every other breath. He was so close, and Phil was still teasing his balls, and for a split second he got the rush of ecstasy that preceded relief. 

That's when Coulson stopped touching him. 

Helpless, Clint tried to chase the orgasm on his own. He thrust his hips in the air, fought against the bonds, screamed when there was no other place for his frustration to go.

"Very good," Coulson said. He stood up from the bed and wiped Clint's precum off his hand with a wet wipe. "I could do this for hours," Coulson said idly. "Put a vibe in you while I do paperwork and listen to you beg. Leave it in overnight, maybe. I know you have tomorrow off. I might let you come in the morning," Phil said, "if I feel like it." 

“But I have a briefcase full of work I haven’t even opened. And half the paperwork in it is yours.” Phil sighed, honest fatigue weighing his shoulders down for a moment. Phil glanced around the room--the half-empty toy drawer, the spilled candlewax, extra ropes they hadn’t ended up using. Phil included Clint--covered in sweat and tears, precum and a little blood--and his expression was distant. Phil looked around like this was a job he _had_ to do, not one he _wanted_ to do.  
He looked like he was ready to leave and might not come back. 

There was a difference between surrender and helplessness and it only took a second for Clint to fall on the wrong side of it. His mouth was gagged or _Tasha_ would have been the first word out of his mouth. (Phil had smiled when Clint had picked it as his safeword. 'Phil' wouldn't have worked, since Clint screamed that a lot anyway when they were fucking, and, after Phil, Natasha was where his mind went when he was hurt and needed help.) 

Since he was wearing the ball-gag, he didn't have words, so he used his back-up: he shook his head from side to side, over and over, frantically enough that his neck was already sore by the time Phil grabbed his head and said, "Shhh, Barton, it's okay. I'm stopping. You're okay." 

Clint shut his eyes, because he knew what Phil's concerned face looked like, and Clint had never wanted Phil to look at him like that. Not when they were like this. 

"I want to take the gag off. Nod if that's okay." Clint clenched his eyes shut and nodded. Phil's hands were careful, but clinical. He didn't want to touch Clint any more than he absolutely had to. Clint understood why Phil wouldn't want to. When the ball gag was taken out of his mouth, Clint turned his face to the side (away from Phil) and stretched his jaw. His whole mouth hurt. 

He still managed to say, "Sorry.” God, he was so sorry. 

His throat was sore from screaming, his tongue tired from trying to push the gag out, his lips hurt from being stretched so wide. Usually at the end of a scene, both he and Coulson would be proud of how rough Clint's voice sounded. Now it just pulled more attention to his weakness. "Sorry, Phil, I fucked up. Please, just--" _Don’t hurt me, I’m sorry, Sir--Phil--_

He couldn’t ask Phil to stay. Couldn’t bear to ask him to keep going when he felt flayed open and vulnerable. He was weak. Always had been. But he had enough pride to keep _Please, stay,_ locked behind his clenched teeth. 

If Phil wanted to leave, Clint wouldn't stop him. Clint had nothing left to offer Phil to keep him here. 

Kneeling on the bed on Clint's other side, Phil said, "You have nothing to be sorry about. Do you want me to take your bonds off, or do you want me to call Natasha?" 

Clint wasn’t sure which one was worse. Phil setting him up for more punishment--for using a _safeword_ like some dumb, scared newbie--or asking Natasha to do it, and letting her know how badly Clint had screwed up.

The urge to fight was still thrumming through him. He took stock the irritation of wax and scrapes that covered his body and said, "Untie me, please, it that’s okay." His voice was rough and he grew more ashamed with every scraped syllable he managed to string together.

"I'm going to start with your right hand," Phil said. Again, he touched Clint as little as possible. How would he punish Clint without touching him? (Clint shivered, thinking of the floggers at the bottom of the toy chest that they hardly ever used.) “I'm going to untie your right leg now. Unless you want me to do your left hand?" 

"Hands," Clint said, not looking at Phil. With his hands free, Clint could undo his feet himself. 

It was only after Coulson freed Clint's hands that they both realized Clint was too stiff to reach the ankle cuffs himself. Phil took care of it, narrating his actions the entire time. He was speaking to Clint like he'd speak to a traumatized witness. (Usually, when Phil undid Clint's bonds, he--he'd caress the skin, or kiss it; like he was saying goodbye before giving Clint his body back.)

"Can you move your limbs for me?" Phil asked. "To make sure you're okay?" 

Clint pulled his legs in and curled his arms around himself. "All systems operational." 

Coulson, who hadn't even taken his suit off, stood at the end of the bed with his arms at his side. "I'm so sorry," Coulson said. "I'm so sorry for pushing you that hard. What do you need now? Do you want me to leave?" 

Clint couldn't—this didn't—" _You're_ sorry?" he asked incredulously. 

"More than I can express."

"No," Clint said, and then, "sir," because part of him was still in this; part of him was still trying to be worthy enough to earn a _Good boy_ before the _goodbye_. "I should...give me a few minutes, please? Give me a few minutes, and--and I’ll be ready for whatever punishment you want." 

(It was a lie, and not a very good one. Tasha would be ashamed of him.)

"I want to wrap you in some blankets," Phil said, looking at Clint's trembling hands. "And get you a glass of water. Is that okay?" 

Clint gaze him an unsteady glance, unsure why Phil was asking for permission, unsure about why Phil was still there. Phil got a half-full glass of water and put it on the bedside table, then held out one of the throws from their couch and sat on the bed to wrap it around Clint's bare shoulders. Clint couldn't help himself. He grabbed Phil's wrist and couldn't make himself let go. 

"Sorry," Clint said again, trying to convince his body to let Phil leave. 

"I'd like to hold you," Phil said. "Nod if that's okay." 

Clint thought he'd already reached the rock bottom of weakness, of shame, but with Coulson warm and offering, Clint nodded, and a second later he was wrapped up in Phil. Phil's arms circled Clint's sore shoulders, sliding the soft blanket over Clint's abraded skin, his legs bracketing Clint's shaking body. 

Phil rested his chin on Clint's shoulder, his forehead leaning against Clint's temple. Then he said, "You were so good. You were doing such a good job. And I'm so proud of you for safewording when you needed to." 

A sob broke its way through Clint's body. The release that he always got from scenes with Phil--the way Phil made him feel known, and worthy, and complete--it had been building for hours, and now it spilled out of him, stunted and twisted, in helpless cries. Phil eased him onto his side and held him while he cried. Clint tensed his body as much as he could, but he still shook; there were still tears coming out of his eyes; he still felt like he'd fall apart if Phil let go of him. 

Phil held on, and called Clint a good boy, and said he was proud of him. 

Clint, who barely believed Phil's praise when he did his absolute best, clung to it now, even knowing it was a lie.

"You did exactly what I wanted you to," Phil said, one arm still wrapped around him, the other stroking over his head and down his neck. "You asked for help when you needed it. You trusted me, Clint. Thank you," he murmured. Clint tilted his face towards Phil, and Phil asked, "Do you want me to kiss you?" 

When Clint nodded, Phil kissed his lips, and the tracks of tears on his cheeks, and the corner of his jaw. 

Eventually Clint turned his head back to rest it on the mattress. Slowly, he unfurled from the tight ball he'd formed his body into. "Good boy," Phil said, stroking Clint with the blanket between them. "I can give you a massage and we can take a hot bath," Phil offered; it was their usual post-scene routine, "or we can just go to sleep now. You'll be stiff in the morning, but I can give you a massage then. Or call Natash--"

"You," Clint interrupted. He grabbed Phil's wrist and stared at his own hand for a moment. Phil didn't move, didn't shift in his grip, didn't struggle to get away. "If you have time--if you don't mind--I want you to stay." 

His words were uncanny echoes of their negotiations during their earliest scenes. He'd been bad at submitting then; he hadn't known how to let go. He'd never learned to trust anyone the way Phil asked Clint to trust him. 

Clint had thought he'd learned those lessons, but apparently he learned them well enough. Tonight he'd been safe in Coulson's bed, barely in pain, not under any threat, and he'd--

He'd felt unsafe. 

At some point, Coulson was going to get tired of teaching Clint the same _you can trust me_ lesson over and over and over again. 

"I'll stay," Phil said. Clint could see the faint signs of relief on his face. "Is there anything you need?" 

Distantly, Clint was aware that he hurt. His cock had gone soft, but his whole torso felt raw and sore. If he waited for the massage and bath, he'd pay for it in the morning, but-- His body hurt, but there was something more important, something dark inside of him that was wounded. “You’re not going to punish me tonight?” he asked, tested the waters. 

“For this? For safewording? I will never punish you.”

"You're not disappointed in me," Clint said, skeptically testing out the words. He didn’t mean to make it a question, but it still came out that way; full of disbelief and need. 

Phil squeezed him tighter for the briefest of moments and then loosed his grip. "Not ever. Not even for a second."

Clint held Phil's answer for a while, then let go of his wrist and said, "I want to sleep. Here, with you, just..." He felt so weak, having to ask. "Just, if you could, if you could say that you're not mad again?" 

"I'm not mad." Phil said it easily, like he would happily say it all night. "It's not your fault. You did nothing wrong." 

"You’re a weird dom,” Clint muttered.

Phil went utterly still. “One of these days, you’re going to give me their names, and I’m going to make every dom who ever touched you sorry for abusing their power. For hurting you. For telling you that being human is the same as being weak.” 

Clint thought of the men who had hurt him with the same tools that Coulson did. Then he thought of Coulson’s quiet voice and kind eyes and the way he wanted to talk, before and during and after, the amount of times he asked Clint if he was ok.

 

“But this wasn’t--we've done that kind of thing before," Clint said, fingernails digging into his palms, mind running over the scene again and again like it was a fight where an arrow missed its mark. "I've never fucked up something that simple before. I don't know why I wasn't good enough this time." 

"It's not a question of being good enough," Phil said quietly. "Every scene is going to be different. Maybe you were in a different mindset tonight. Maybe I used more force than I did before. Maybe I had you wait too long. I'm just sorry that I didn't stop the scene earlier; I should have seen some warnings signs." 

"Not your fault either," Clint said, shoving Phil with his shoulder. "I don't get to blame me, so you don't get to blame you." Phil huffed out a laugh but nodded eventually. 

As exhausted as he was, Clint couldn't get to sleep. "Does this mean... This doesn't mean that we stop for good, right? It's just for tonight?" 

"Exactly." Phil hesitated, but then began to run his hands over Clint's body again. (Clint made Phil repeat the spoken, important, complicated promises over and over, because it took them a while to settle. Touch was easier for Clint to understand.) 

"I think perhaps I didn't explain this well enough when we started out,” Phil said. 

“Never needed to safeword with you before,” Clint said, voice mostly muffled in a pillow. “And with other people…” He swallowed convulsively.

“I’m guessing that some of them gave you safewords, and some didn’t. And some of the ones who did probably didn’t listen when you used them. Or told you it was your fault, a--a failure.” 

Clint nodded jerkily, muscles in his body twitching with years-old memories that he wanted to escape. “This is why the baby agents think you’re psychic.” 

“How do you know I’m not?” Phil asked. Clint gave him a half-smile and Phil kissed his shoulder through the thick blanket. “Here’s how it works for me. If either of us safewords, the scene stops, and we take care of each other as best we can. That's it. That's the worst that happens. It's like... If you put a Faberge egg in someone’s hand and tell them to hold it out in the air as long as they can, eventually their arm would get tired. You don't want them to drop the egg, and you can’t expect them to hold it forever, so you need them to tell you when their arm gets tired. You don't want to risk having something that valuable break." 

"...am I the egg in this scenario, or the arm?”

"Both,” Phil said. “And so am I. You're precious. And--and you're not fragile, not weak, but...with what we're doing? As far as we go, with everything we do--you let me bring you to places where I could hurt you. Everyone is breakable. And I can't...I have to know that you're going to tell me if your arm gets tired. I don't want anything to shatter into pieces on my watch.”

Clint pulled Phil's arm tighter around himself. "You think I'm a pretty egg," Clint said, doing his best to make it a tease. "You want to hold me." 

"And take care of you, and play with you, and sleep with you," Phil continued, like it wasn’t a joke at all. "And love you. But you knew that already." 

Clint waited a few more minutes to let everything settle. He was--he was new to being loved. He had to double-check sometimes, to see if he still believed Phil or not. "I do know that," he said finally. "And I--" He wriggled closer to Phil on the bed, which was as close to _I love you_ as he was going to get for a while. "And I like that I've got you here to take care of me." 

"Anytime," Phil said, sleep starting to soften his voice. "However I can." 

Phil fell asleep before Clint did. Clint still felt shaky, still felt like he'd left something important unfinished. He still felt like maybe he needed to be punished. But also he knew that only an _AVENGERS ASSEMBLE_ text was going to get Clint to move out of the circle of Phil’s arms. For now, they’d sleep. Everything else, they’d figure out together.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is appreciated!


End file.
